


We Were Liars, Lovers in Combat

by salvadore



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Dreams, Explicit Language, Imagined Character Death, M/M, PTSD, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvadore/pseuds/salvadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their tour in Iraq, Brad and Ray attempt to have a romantic relationship. This is hindered by Brad's tour with the British Marines and the constant nightmares Ray is having that he can't talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Liars, Lovers in Combat

***

As far as Brad is concerned, libo in Australia is a fiasco and a half. The first thing the platoon does when they hit the soil is find a bar.

It's not long before Brad is nursing a beer and watching while a brawl becomes more and more likely. Some of the men are brandishing pool sticks and shaking them at each other in camaraderie, but in such a drunken fashion that Garza has a few close calls when Chaffin swings the stick toward his brother's face. Brad smiles against the lip of his beer to hide his amusement at Rudy's attempts to implement a fair game.

Beside Brad, Ray is drinking with less restraint. Already, Ray's pupils are blown wide and he is grinning with his teeth bared. Ray waves what must be the remains of his third beer, really just filthy hillbilly spit swirling at the bottom of the amber glass.

“What the fuck, homes,” Ray breathes out.

Brad looks toward Ray to hear him better, expecting more to be said, but quickly realizes that it wasn't a question meriting an answer. He watches Ray wave at the bartender and cry for more drinks to be served. Ray's fingers are long and even in the dim lighting Brad can tell that there is still sand beneath Ray's nails. Brad downs his beer in one long pull when he realizes that he is staring at Ray's solitary dimple.

Later, when Brad grabs Ray's shoulder and steers him out of the bar, Ray is warm with alcohol and goes easily.

They find a bar with pop-music pumping through the walls some ways away and Brad drags Ray inside despite the way his hackles raise at the sound. He wants another beer to make Ray easier to handle, and his thoughts about Ray easier to explain away. Brad leaves Ray leaning against the counter top while he waves the bartender down. Meanwhile Ray spins a diatribe that is meant to cripple the feelings of every patron, and their mother, with little reaction to the change of scenery.

“Come on, Ray,” Brad says as he grabs their drinks and heads for a table. He tries not to growl the words out like an order, but whether he failed or not doesn't seem to matter to Ray who isn't even listening.

In fact Ray doesn't even seem to pause to breathe as he tells Brad, in avid detail, about the time he hitchhiked with every member of NAMBLA checking out his ass at truck stops. Its an obvious lie and,despite himself, Brad is laughing along. Later, when Brad looks up from his beer, Ray is grinning like a five year old at Christmas. It makes something in Brad's stomach clench.

Ray brings back a tray of tequila shots and his big mouth runs away without him. By their second round of shots Ray is calling Jess the cruelest thing he can think of; proving he remembers every word Brad has ever uttered in his presence. Beside him, Brad has slowed down to nursing a stray bottle of some yuppie-beer, uncomfortable and clenching a fist around his jean clad knee, but he doesn’t stop Ray from his anecdote. Brad barely grunts in response when Ray reminds him there is plenty of pussy at the bar.

“Dude, you are such a caveman,” Ray exclaims after the third time Brad replies to his questioning with a grunt. Ray slams his shot glass back down on table and catches the distance in Brad’s eyes. “Go forth and bring me back more beer.”

Brad shoves him on his way to stand and Ray laughs as he falls back in the booth. Brad rolls his eyes but he brings back round three. Ray offers to blow him in his overflowing gratitude.

“I wouldn’t let your diseased lips near my cock, Ray, if your mouth were the last hole available.” Brad says it in a deadpanned voice but a smile twitches at the corner of his lips. The response is a loud laugh from Ray as he throws his head back. Brad is laughing as well, as Ray bemoans the wall directly behind the booth when he hits it with his head.

“Fuck you homes, I probably have a concussion,” Ray whines cupping his hands over the back of his skull.  
Brad rolls his eyes at the melodrama but a grin is firmly etching itself onto his face. He notices Ray’s lips and how they tighten into a smirk when Ray leans toward Brad. Brad’s heart starts pounding and he has a hard time convincing himself he isn’t staring at Ray Person’s lips like a girl.

All the while Ray is oblivious, laughing and flailing about his side of the booth as he gets steadily less coherent. For moments at a time Ray gives off the appearance that he is listening to Brad’s grunted affronts to his manhood. But then he interrupts with another exaggerated tell of his childhood in Nevada, Missouri. His eyes get dark and Brad wonders whether it is because of the alcohol in Ray's blood. Or if it is a trick of the lighting and Ray's irises just look darker when contrasted by the way his cheeks are growing steadily redder from the warmth of the alcohol. Brad throws the thought aside because, either way, he's blaming it on the alcohol.

A few times Brad thinks that he catches Ray watching him, but the look in Ray's dark eyes isn't translating. Normally they can communicate with just eyebrows and grins and the way one of them narrows their eyes, but not now. Its as if as soon as they walked into this bar Brad's internal Ray-to-English dictionary had been thrown out the window. It makes Brad go hot and stare at the stains on the table.

Where most people would take a breath between sentences, Ray drinks until he is drunk enough for Brad to lead him to a hotel.

Brad was supposed to have taken Ray back to the hotel hours ago, that was what he had told Rudy he was doing as he dragged Ray out the front door of the first bar. But, by now, Brad is inebriated enough himself to forget about their previous, and separate, accommodations halfway across town.

They stumble away from the second bar instead, and search for the nearest motel. Ray is yelling into Brad's ear and into the open sky. Brad tries not to giggle, even though something has shaken loose in his chest and is demanding that he does so.

Ray does a spin in the open street and Brad notices that although Ray's hair is short it has somehow managed to look a mess. Like bedhead and long hours of sex.

Brad doesn't know why he is thinking about those sorts of things, and refuses to examine them any closer. He grabs Ray by the wrist and carries his nearly dead weight into the first building with available accommodations. Ray just falls against him laughing and saying something about the comms.

Inside the only staff member, a clerk at the front desk, eyes them warily as they move to the counter. In the back of Brad's mind he notices the shabby uniform and the ancient wallpaper on the walls.

After he pays for a room, Brad doesn’t notice the look on the clerk’s face when she pushes a key card across the counter top to him. He's too busy with Ray hanging off of him like the ape-type creature Brad habitually likens him to.

\--

Brad is holding Ray against the room’s door before either of them realizes there is only one bed. Brad’s hands are heavy on Ray’s waist as he slips his fingers under the frayed hem of Ray’s well-worn Rolling Stones shirt. Ray moans and Brad presses his thumbs harder into the dip of Ray’s hipbones, trying to feel Ray’s bones. His grip forces Ray’s bucking hips flat against the wall.

It’s not much of a kiss because they are both too drunk to be coordinated, but it gets the point across, even with all of the slobber and teeth. Brad thinks Ray tastes like onion rings, which doesn’t process. He’d been with Ray all night and no such food was consumed.

Eventually Brad pulls back, but only because Ray is being annoying and his hands are insistently shoving at Brad’s chest. Ray takes a breath and let’s loose a slurred, “Dude, why didn’t you say something?”

As they fumble their way toward the bed, Brad nips at Ray’s jaw, murmuring against skin what sort of numb nuts he thinks Ray to be. Ray responds with a grin and his fingers on Brad’s belt. Then he shoves Brad back onto the mattress.

“Seriously, homes,” Ray slurs. Brad props himself up onto his elbows as he watches Ray struggle to pull his shirt over his head. With his head still stuck under the fabric, Ray throws Brad the bird as if he can see Brad's amused grin. Brad laughs, slipping from his elbows to lie drunkenly on his back, feeling like all of his limbs are lighter. The bed shakes with a half naked Ray bouncing onto it and climbing up Brad’s body until he’s straddling Brad’s waist. He rolls his hips, grinning when Brad’s groans in response.

“Did you think about me during combat jacks, Brad?”

Brad blames it on the alcohol, and the way Ray is looking at him with his eyes blown and dopey from the kiss, when he answers honestly.

“I imagined shutting you up with my cock,” Brad says, failing when he attempts to shrug his shoulders.

  
Ray barks a laugh. Then in the next moment he is shimmying down Brad’s body, fingers curling under the hem of Brad's shirt to pull it up. Ray moves beneath the fabric, thinking only of leaving a hickey squarely between Brad’s pecs. Brad gasps, hips arching up against Ray. He slides one hand into Ray’s back pocket to hold him flat. The material of Ray’s jeans is thin from constant wear and Brad can feel the fabric of Ray’s boxers when he squeezes Ray’s ass. Bucking up against Ray, Brad uses his free hand to pull his shirt up farther so he can see Ray again.

It's minutes before Ray passes out, sprawled across Brad’s chest with Brad’s hand in his back pocket. Ray sleeps with his mouth wide against Brad’s bare skin as he snores. Brad absentmindedly runs his fingers through the short crop of Ray’s hair and stares at the mirror on the ceiling. Brad marvels at how their bodies look pressed together. He falls asleep plotting how to turn back time and take back the confession he made.

\--

Ray wakes up the next morning and the first words out of his mouth aren't how gay Brad is (or with something closer to betrayal in his voice; even thinking about it makes Brad's stomach feel as though it is lined with lead). Brad takes it as a sign that Ray has no recollection of last night.

Ray laughs at their position, his palms bearing down on Brad’s chest as he pushes himself up and off. When Ray wanders past the mirror his way into the cubicle sized shower he doesn’t ask about the finger-shaped bruises over his hipbones.

After his shower, Ray manhandles Brad in the minuscule bathroom and wrestles Brad's toothbrush from his hands while wearing only a towel. But its playful, like last night had never happened, and Brad doesn't know whether or not he feels relieved.

\--

After the tour, Brad goes home and does not dwell on almost panic attacks or rising bile when he reaches to call Ray.

He drives his bike. He fucks prostitutes. He absolutely doesn't call Ray when he's drunk, or stare too hard at the bartender at the dive twelve blocks over just because he looks like Ray.

And if he dreams about Ray's flushed face in Australia as he is wrapping his hand around his cock in the shower, no one will ever know.

\--

Three months after their return from Iraq, Ray shows up in California out of the blue. Ray had been to Brad’s house twice before. For Nate’s paddle-party and once right after Iraq when he had missed his flight back to Nowhere-Nevada-Missouri. Ray had stayed the night and been privy to one half of a conversation between Brad and his mother. Even though Brad is surprised to find Ray standing on his porch, with his hands in his back pockets, wearing the biggest shit-eating-grin Brad has ever seen, and a drawn out explanation that never gets to the point, it doesn’t seem out of place. Brad stands with his hand on the door frame, blocking any entrance, and thinks that it was only a matter of time before Ray reappeared.

“Ray.”

“Did daddy miss me?” Ray asks. He places a hand below Brad’s on the doorway and flutters his eyelashes. Not that Brad notices, but Ray sticks his ass out as he leans forward.

“Would you like some coffee, Ray?” It’s barely a question when Ray has already ducked beneath his arm and made it halfway through his living room.

“Sure, homes.” Ray has his fingers on the one picture Brad has in the house. He’s making faces, eyebrows raised as if to question the frozen faces in the frame, with one hand still in his back pocket.

“Just helped Hasser move all of his shit into a goddamned twelve-by-twelve and thought I’d swing by and watch a trust-fund brat in all his well-bred glory.”

Ray's closed-lipped grin turns from the picture to Brad. Brad rolls his eyes as he pulls the photo from Ray’s clutches and tucks it under his arm. Then Brad returns Ray's grin with a dare in his eyes, begging Ray to comment on the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Colbert flanking their recently graduated son from all those years ago. Ray doesn't say a word, just grins wider.

Brad cuts the momentary silence with a bark, “Get your ass in the kitchen, you-cousin-fucking hick.”

Brad follows his statement up by shoving Ray in the direction of his kitchen. Ray gets out of his reach and runs around the island while Brad stuffs the photo in the nearest drawer. When he turns, Ray has his hands planted on the counter top to hoist himself up in front of the window over the sink.

“Did you know you could see the ocean from your sink, _Braaad_?”

Brad rolls his eyes at the way Ray elongates the vowel in his name. Just as he moves around the island to where Ray is, Ray drops back to his heels and spins. There is a gleam in Ray's eyes and he suddenly seems to take up more space than his wiry body occupies. Brad maneuvers around the mass of limbs that passes for Ray Person to reach for the coffee filters from the top cupboard.

“Show off,” Ray scoffs. Its an attempt at a friendly argument and Brad avoids it.

“Explain to me again why you are in California?”

Brad blames what happens next on hearing Ray say “fuck” and “pussy” repeatedly in his twenty-minute response to Brad’s question. Kissing Ray was just a foolproof way of getting Ray to shut-the-fuck-up. Brad moves across the kitchen and crowds Ray against the counter top. Ray has his mouth open in the middle of a sentence and Brad has to bend a little, but he gets his hands over Ray’s temples and manages to hold him still enough to kiss.

Brad pulls back a second later, but doesn’t let go. The space between their mouths is enough for Ray to catch his breath and squawk, “Dude! You should have said something!”

Brad bends again and the sag Ray had dropped into, with his arms at his sides and standing with his mouth pliant, ends abruptly. There are hands in Brad hair that pull him forward and he has to brace himself by covering Ray's ribs with his hands. Ray tugs as best he can at Brad's hair as he surges up. There are teeth on Brad's lips as Ray backs him up against the the island.

The coffee Brad offered Ray at his arrival is canceled in favor of Ray leading the way to the bedroom, a task that takes longer than necessary what with Ray’s general inability to find his way out of a paper bag unless he’s driving a Humvee and Brad being useless because he’s too busy shoving Ray against all available surfaces to point the bed out.

Against the entertainment center, Ray’s fingers find their way under the elastic of Brad’s sweatpants, sliding over the grooves of Brad’s hipbones. Brad feels teeth grazing the side of his neck as Ray digs his fingernails into Brad's hipbones. Gasping, Brad thrusts up toward where Ray was, but suddenly the hands and teeth are gone. Ray laughs as he stumbles away and straight into a wall. Brad doesn't hesitate in following Ray and boxing him.

They reach the bedroom out of breath. Brad throws Ray to the bed and follows him down, digging his fingers into Ray's biceps. Biting his way down Ray's chest, Brad feels Ray's fingers in his hair.

“Get those pants off, homes,” is whispered harshly into Brad's ear once Ray manages to drag him back to eye level.

Smirking, Brad rolls off of Ray and lies with his arms over his head. There is a loud laugh in his ear as Ray rolls on top of him. Ray slides down Brad's body, laughing against Brad's collarbone on the way down. He slides his hands under the waistband of Brad's sweats and drags them down Brad's legs, leaving Brad's line of sight as he drops to the floor. Ray reappears with his teeth bared and his hands drawing up the skin of Brad's legs. On his way back up to Brad's lips Ray indulges himself by licking along the line of Brad's hipbone.

Later Ray is laughing with Brad’s weight draped over his own and Brad's mouth on his collarbone. Brad feels Ray shake beneath him and remembers, like an epiphany, that he was in the middle of packing for two years in the UK. Brad tries to pull away but Ray latches on like an octopus. He yells what a shithead he thinks Brad is in Brad’s ear. Ray decries Brad's family tree while running his hands reassuringly down Brad's back. Brad doesn’t ask if Ray will be there when he gets back because it’s too fruity. Especially in this room, with this man, and Brad’s own lips forming the words. Besides, Ray would say he’s affronted and talk about pussy again and Brad prefers the uses of his mouth that don’t involve words.

\--

Over the course of three weeks Brad and Ray disappear from polite society. Most days are spent with Ray as naked as the day he was born, spouting shit, and miraculously getting laid instead of a cold stare for his trouble.

On the fifth morning Ray is racing around the bedroom in search of his ringing cellphone. Brad is a lump under the covers and when he speaks it's to groan, “Get back in the bed,” into the pillows.

“Your bed, you mean, you slave driving Viking-fuck. Some of us have other needs than where our dick is going to be in the next five minutes.” Ray is grinning as he bends over naked to look through a pair of jeans. He can hear Brad rolling his eyes from the distance and waits for Brad to throw something, a pillow or another colorful adjective about his mother, at him.

Ray peeks over his shoulder and staggers slightly at the sight. Brad is sitting up in bed, eying Ray and his naked ass. Brad looks mussed and half asleep, but the words that come out of his lips are of a person who is wide awake.

“It's doubtful you even have a brain to think with when you stop listening to your dick. Don't throw around such lies.”

Brad flops back under the sheets as soon as the last “s” has slipped from his tongue.

“Besides, it's our bed, you whiskey tango goat fucker,” Brad adds, mumbling into his pillow again. Ray’s head fills with a warm buzz and it takes a moment for him to push down the instantaneous smile rising in reaction.

The bed shakes when Ray dives back onto it. Brad groans, burrowing deeper into the mattress in a way that makes Ray cackle. Ray bounces purposefully around on the bed, cellphone forgotten in his new mission to piss Brad off.

\--

Another morning Brad stirs to the feeling of fingers on his back. The touch is soft but the fingers themselves are rough with calluses. Brad shifts upward under the touch, seeking to make it less fleeting and gentle. As soon as he shifts, though, the fingers retreat. Brad waits, holding his breath and holding perfectly still, but the soft, reverent running of fingers over his skin doesn't return.

It does, however, happen again days later. This time Brad lies still while Ray traces the contours of Brad’s tattoo with more focused attention than Brad thought possible.

After ten minutes Brad asks, “What are you doing, Ray?”

The touch disappears and Ray says, “Nothin’ homes.”

Brad stops interrupting and lets Ray pretend it’s a secret.

\--

One morning Brad's phone starts ringing while he's in the bathroom. Ray is startled by the sound of it because there hasn't been an interruption since he arrived. He'd half-thought that Brad might have unhooked the landline. But apparently not. Ray frowns as he fumbles to answer by the forth ring with fingers greased by butter. He mumbles a greeting that is further garbled by the toast he had stuffed into his mouth moments before.

The caller still knows him instantly.

“Ray?”

“What’s up LT.” Ray tries for casual, and he feels like he has begun to sweat. He tries not to think about how not even his own mother knows he's here. Then swallows around a suddenly dry throat and asks, “Did you need to talk to Brad?”

“That would be why I called his house.” Fick says in his flatly amused way.

Ray rolls his eyes because he can practically hear the grin on Fick's face. It was a weak joke and Ray tells the LT he had to roll his eyes at it so the gesture won't go to waste. He feels at ease, which is no surprise. One of Nate's greatest gifts was his ability to put the men at ease.

That and not being fucked in the head.

Ray covers the mouthpiece with his hand and calls for Brad.

Brad takes the phone back into the bedroom. There's only a few beats between the closing of their bedroom door and when Ray murmurs, “Fuck it,” and picks up the landline in the kitchen.

“...I won’t be here, but Ray is doing Thanksgiving from my kitchen. The full fucking turkey with stuffing and shit, besides he’s already invited Hasser and Poke's whole family, so you may as well show up,” he hears Brad say. Ray hops up on the island and listens to Nate hum in agreement and a thousand different theories jump into Ray's head as to why Nate might have called. Most of them dirty ideas that would only come to fruition in porn.

“If Ray wouldn't mind. It would likely be a better time than going home for the holidays.”

There's a silence and then Brad's voice, as gentle as it ever gets saying, “You don’t sound well, sir.”

“Yeah, well,” Nate quips before he exhales heavily. Ray imagines the LT is running a hand over his brow, and that his brow is furrowed and his eyes are clenched tight. Frustration is probably clear on his face in a way it never was in theater.

“So,” Nate's words seem to catch as they are leaving his lips. Ray may be holding his breath while he waits for the LT to drop the rest of his sentence. “Ray.”

Ray is proud that the LT manages to make his name sound like a statement rather than a question. At least, after his heart stops pounding from thinking he has been caught listening in.

Brad's chuckle crackles over the line.

“He’s like a Cocker Spaniel, sir. Sure as fuck followed me home like one.”

Fick's smile is audible when he quips, “Sure Brad, it’s not like I wasn’t in Iraq with you.”

“Stay safe, Nate,” Brad says, navigating around the unasked question before he hangs up.

When he wanders into the kitchen Ray is waiting, sitting cross-legged on the island. Ray knows from the look on Brad's face that he wasn't nearly as ninja as he would have liked, but Brad didn't look pissed. Instead he looked amused and it makes Ray grin, reassured even though he would never admit to it.

“I’ll show you Cocker Spaniel,” Ray taunts and Brad full-out grins in response.

“Will you?”

Ray thinks to back Brad against the counters for once, but his legs are jerked out from beneath him abruptly. When his view of the world is more clear, Ray is facing the the island and Brad is pressed against his back. There are lips at Ray's left ear and Brad is applying enough weight on his back that the counter is biting into Ray's hips.

And Ray throws his head back against Brad's shoulder in a laugh.

“I'll make you pay for that,” Ray threatens. Brad just hums in his ear and before Ray can argue further Brad is jerking him back so he can get a hand inside of Ray's jeans.

\--

When Brad lands in London, he sends Ray a quick note to “not do anything stupid, you retard.” Ray prints it out and draws hearts in highlighter and tapes it to the fridge. He proudly shows it off to Walt when he has him over. Walt rolls his eyes and calls Ray an idiot. Afterward, they run around the beach drunk on some bourbon Brad had hidden in the back of his cupboard.

Then classes start and Ray shoves his thoughts to the back of his mind and settles into a routine of making a mess then cleaning it up within three days.

\--

The first time Ray wakes from a dream about the war, Brad has been in England for almost two weeks. Ray sits up in bed with this thought and a cold sweat from head to chest. The dream fades quickly. Something vague about mortar fire, motorcars, or possibly NASCAR. Ray shrugs it off, rolling over to go back to sleep.

The second time, Ray tries to fall back to sleep and ends up waking an hour later more exhausted than before from a dream where Brad is sleeping beside him. It leaves him with an ache that is hard to touch. Ray rolls out of bed and at three am he deems it time to interrupt the royal-ass-kissers with some necessary Ray-Ray.

\--

Brad finds twelve messages in his inbox, all of them long and rambling. At one point Brad thinks Ray mentions having Walt over for a “sleep-over.”

He reads them and doesn’t have words to say in response but knowing Ray, he doesn’t want any attention to the words, he just needs recognition. Every e-mail arrived at noon and the math is simple. Brad finds four words to temper Ray.

_Go to sleep, Ray._

\--

Ray takes the advice the same way he takes Brad’s orders to shut-up. He sends Brad a picture of their bed with a blow-up doll snug under the covers. Its face is hidden behind an enlarged photo of Brad’s face, masterly taped on with duct tape. Brad calls it “cute” in his sarcastic tone when Ray calls during their bi-monthly phone call. Ray doesn’t tell him about not washing the sheets, or the dreams, or curling around Brad’s pillow – it’s far too gay for them.

And, for once, Ray doesn’t have the words.

\--

On Thanksgiving, Brad forgets the day is even a holiday, and because of that doesn’t immediately wish he were near Ray. His family doesn’t call, strictly mandated not to, but the LT somehow manages to sneak away from the table to send him an e-mail.

_Cocker Spaniel, Brad? More like a hyena in clothes._

Attached are photos worthy of mounting on the walls of a family abode, if you were into that sort of thing. Brad stares the longest at one of Ray in his kitchen. There is enough food for a battalion and he’s looking over his shoulder at Walt who is holding up the fridge with a beer and a grin. Ray is in a wife-beater and an apron, his tattoos poking out of the top. Brad's gaze lingers on Ray's collarbones, looking for a sign of the bruises he sucked into the skin there. But, of course, none are visible. Brad looks away and notices that Ray has on oven mitts as he holds the turkey aloft.

Brad realizes he has a filthy, fifties housewife waiting at home. He has to press a hand to his mouth to hold back his laughter.

\--

“Hello?” Ray's voice crackles over the line.

“What was with Walt's costume change?”

“Walt is an uncivilized backwoods-hick who thinks khaki shorts are appropriate for Thanksgiving,” Ray says, not even needing to ask what Brad is referring to. Brad rolls his eyes but smiles.

“They aren't?”

“Fuck no, homes. So I lent him clothes before Gina, Poke, and the girls could see his fucking disgrace.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Fuck you, you great big Hebrew bastard.”

Brad chuckles. He smiles as he asks, “Did I miss anything else?”

“Yeah, a fucking awesome tirade from Poke on how I was reveling in the massacre of his people. Then I put your collectors edition of Pocahontas on for his kids and I thought he was gonna break my arm.”

“You're lucky Gina was there, you stupid whiskey-tango foxtrot.”

“Funny. That's what Poke said too.”

\--

Brad takes Christmas leave and flies home despite the hellish air traffic. Ray is supposed to meet him at arrivals and, when Brad gets through the lines, then out toward the drop off zones, Ray is nowhere to be found. He stands in the airport counting the minutes on the large clock hung over the entrance and tries not to look for Ray-fucking-Person’s frame racing toward him from the parking lot. Something twists in his stomach and Brad tells himself he’ll wait an hour, but leaves after the minute hand on the clock has only jumped forward ten minutes. His mind is fixed on the worst possible scenarios.

Brad catches a taxi partly because Ray has his car and partly because he's imagining packed bags beside his front door. He tries to not spend the entire ride drumming his fingers on the arm rest. He knows he is acting irrational.

When he gets home, Brad finds Ray tucked around the coffee table. He's dead asleep with his left cheek plastered to an open textbook and a pen held loosely in his fist. There is a pile of books on the floor and papers with red marks and post-it notes covering up the surface of the coffee table. Brad stares and thinks that when Ray tries to stand, there are going to be papers stuck to the back of his arms by sweat.

The house is clean, but smells of strong coffee. Brad nudges Ray awake and gets an owlish look in return. Brad waits and watches as the sleep clears from Ray's eyes. When it finally does, Ray jerks upright at the sight of him, sending his textbooks flying off of the table from the motion. Ray sits up straight and he looks terrified for a moment. Brad stares at the line of pen on Ray's chin to avoid seeing the terror.

“Fuck,” Ray murmurs as he presses a hand to his forehead. He's sinking back into a slouch and there are dark bags under his eyes, Brad notices. Ray's hands are shaking as he says, “I’m so fucking sorry, homes.”

Brad just nods, more in recognition of the apology because he's not going to be mad at Ray for sleeping. Grabbing Ray's elbow, Brad forces Ray to his feet. He's harsher than he should be and he realizes how it looks when he notices Ray's jaw tightening, a tell for when Ray plans to attack with his fists. Easing his hold on Ray, Brad rubs his thumb over the boney knob of Ray's elbow until Ray sags, jaw and fists loosening.

Brad pulls Ray down the hall to the bedroom slowly. As he walks backward, Brad looks Ray over closely so as to take in any new wrinkles or bruises. It earns him an exhausted but cheeky grin. Ray raises his arms to wrap them around Brad's neck. Brad pushes Ray up against the closest wall and kisses the hell out of him just to stop from thinking of Ray on ripped-fuel in the middle of the desert. _Finals,_ Brad convinces himself, despite the clenching in his chest.

For sanity’s sake, Brad checks the house while Ray is asleep. No ripped fuel, no weed. There is coffee in the pot and a pillow missing from Brad’s side of the bed, but everything is in order.

Brad watches Ray closely over the next few days and then chalks it up to paranoia when Ray seems without any new problems, even begins to look healthier. Ray withstands the scrutiny with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s ‘cause you can cook, homes,” Ray says around a forkful of spaghetti, purposefully smearing tomato sauce around his mouth. Its a boldfaced lie, but Brad is willing to take it.

\--

Brad doesn't know what it is about being back, but he needs to touch Ray. Needs to reaffirm that Ray is actually there. It starts to get ridiculous when he spends two hours in bed with Ray sleeping beside him just running his fingers down the line of Ray's spine.

Anytime they leave the house is a test of Brad's control. Especially with Ray being Ray, and not respecting any ideas of personal space. He runs into Brad while they're walking in the supermarket as if their bodies are bumper cars.

Brad wouldn't mind so much if he were allowed to throw Ray against the doors in the freezer aisle and go down on him without any repercussions.

\--

Ray's way of apologizing for missing Brad’s flight is to coerce Brad into re-christening every room in the house. Some nights are spent on the living room carpet. At one point Ray wakes up buck-naked on the porch with Brad standing over him, telling him to get up with a grin hidden behind his cup of coffee.

Ray doesn’t have a single dream that he remembers about Iraq. He doesn’t make the connection until two days before Brad heads back to England, his hair already shorn back – coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. Ray runs a thumb over his own lips as he stares at Brad’s.

“Ray.”

Ray ignores the tone and continues to lean his elbows on the tile of the island, further intruding on Brad’s personal space so he can better scrutinize his face. Not for the first time, slightly disbelieving in his recognition that this isn’t a dream.

“I know that until you met me, your whiskey-tango ass had never seen a sentient being but I had assumed we were past the assimilation stage of your worshiping.”

“Worship my dick, Colbert,” Ray throws back. Leaning against the opposite counter, he grins as Brad moves around the island. Brad’s grin is wolfish and Ray digs his fingers into the grout between the tiles just to stop himself from dropping to his knees.

Brad exhales, almost chuckling and Ray can't help it if his eyes drop to the outline of Brad's dick. Ray licks his lower lip distractedly. He hears Brad laughing above him and when Ray looks up Brad is stepping into his space. Brad blocks Ray against the counter, stretching his hands out in search of Ray’s hands, licking his lips as he boxes Ray in.

“Fuck,” Ray snorts.

“Yeah,” Brad breaths over Ray’s jaw, chuckling. Ray turns his palms over underneath Brad's hands. Ray laughs and Brad kisses the sound out of his mouth, pressing in on Ray so that he has to bend his back against the counter top. Brad is so close that Ray is sure he can feel every bit of tension in Ray’s body, from the locking of his elbows to the slow way he’s lacing his fingers in Brad’s. It’s as hesitant as Ray ever gets. When Brad thrusts his hips forward, he squeezes his fingers around Ray’s tight, if not encouraging.

\--

Brad leaves without Ray mentioning the dreams. Ray can't mention them, not after he woke up wrapped up in Brad and twisted in the sheets. He would have been embarrassed if it weren't for the feeling of contentment stronger than he has experienced in his whole life. Ray isn't prepared to do anything that would fuck them up and make that feeling slip away.

Instead Ray skips his regular classes and sits in on a senior psych seminar. He doesn’t know what he expected. There is no mention of dream analysis and he already knows he’s not schizophrenic.

\--

When day-passes are handed out, Brad goes out to lunch with some other NCOs, not wanting to look like the anti-social prick. A Sergeant with barely visible red-hair from where it's scraped so close to his scalp is talking about his girlfriend and there are nods and laughs around the table as he starts talking about her breasts. Brad knows this part, where he doubts anyone will ask but he already has a grin at the ready and a euphemism about the way Ray's moans on hand that is also gender neutral enough it will be accepted as a story about his girlfriend “Regina.”

Several sets of eyebrows waggle at him, and there are some chin's pointed his way. But without a direct question Brad just makes his Iceman face and turns toward the menu.

An itch starts in his lower back after they order their drinks. Without a word Brad makes for the bathroom where he leans his hands heavily on the sink top. The bathroom is empty and, even though he knows it is a fucking stupid and sentimental thing to do, Brad lifts his shirt and turns. Turning his head so he can study the tattoo on his lower back, all Brad can think about is Ray’s fingers and that first morning in bed.

Brad misses Ray in a painful rush, not unlike when you stand up and your head is possessed by a pang of pain at the motion. He is glad the only civilian shoes he has are a pair of runners because he needs to get away, fast. The bathroom is too small and too quiet. Even the restaurant, rampant with conversation and the chorus of eating, is too quiet. Or, at least, absent of the one sound that Brad needs.

He waves the other guys off with a grunted apology and makes for the exit, his mind set on finding a public telephone booth. He's sure he saw one in front of an Irish pub six blocks back.

Brad is out of breath when Ray picks up, having run flat out.

“Colbert residence, Brad's housekeeper speaking. He isn't in the country, but I do a kick ass impression of him,” Ray greets. He sounds half distracted and Brad imagines that Ray has a pencil between his teeth as he waits for Brad to speak.

“Is that really how you answer my phone?”

“Brad?” There is a shattering sound, ceramic on tile, and Ray cursing loudly. “Fuck, man. I didn't recognize the number.”

“I'm using what may be the last public phone booth in the country,” Brad says, smiling as the cursing continues under Ray's breath.

“You didn't think to use your cell phone?” Ray asks incredulously, then he chuckles. Before Brad can come up with an answer Ray asks, in a softer tone, “Did you miss me?”

Brad knows that Ray is smiling in that way where it's only the lift of his lips and no teeth are visible. The eraser of the pencil is bouncing against the tabletop as Ray drums absentmindedly because he can't sit still no matter how he tries. It's not even four am, and if Ray is in the kitchen than the dark blues of the sky and sea are where he is focusing his eyes while he waits.

Brad lays his head against the glass of the booth and lets loose a sigh that feels as though it is unwinding itself from the core of his chest. At the end of the breath he says yes.

\--

Brad gets a week off in March. He books a flight and reminds Ray the night before when his flight is due to land. Ray laughs it off when Brad asks if there is enough of a house left for him to return to, or if Ray has managed to burn it down.

Brad's flight gets in on time and this time Ray is waiting for him outside the airport. Brad walks out into the sun and spots Ray seated on the hood of his car, feet on the bumper and legs spread suggestively.

Even if it’s a hot sight to see, Brad barks at him, “Get your fucking feet off my car, Person.”

Ray smirks back, taking his sweet time to turn the key ring around his forefinger before he jumps to the ground.

\--

The next morning Brad pulls them out of bed early enough to see the sun rising and, despite Ray’s protestations, leads the way through the sand. Brad surfs and Ray stares unabashedly inbetween working on his sand castle.

“That looks like shit,” Brad critiques as he approaches. He sets his board down and kneels beside Ray. It’s ridiculous and childish but neither needs to care at six am on a Monday when Brad’s view of the beach is un-obscured by tourists.

Ray’s fingers itch to drag Brad into the sand but a hand catches the back of his neck before he gives into the notion. It’s followed by a damn slow kiss and Ray comes out a little dumber.

“Homes, I am so willing to get sand in my ass for you right now,” he says through his dopey grin.

Brad laughs and tells him to shut up. When he drags Ray back to the house it's as if Ray is something valuable Brad found while pillaging a village. Ray doesn’t even protest or rant about Vikings. He lets it happen, the same way he lets Brad pull his shirt over his head before being held against the fridge by Brad's hands and teeth. Ray fidgets at the cold and the teeth bruising the skin below his collarbone. Ray arches his neck as best he can, urging Brad up his skin toward his lips.

“Please.” Ray doesn't know if he has ever used that word with Brad. At least not sincerely. And he is, sincere, so sincere that the word comes out in a hiss that is almost painful. The “s” at the end passes through his fucked-up teeth, stretching and turning into a whistle. Brad's fingers dig deeper where they are on Ray's ribs, making Ray hiss again. Ray lifts his chin higher like it is an act of defiance and strains for Brad's lips.

Brad evades a kiss, tilting and ducking his head to press his lips to where the muscles of Ray's throat are straining against the skin. Ray throws his arms around Brad's back as his knees lose function and digs his nails into Brad's shoulder blades as he tries to stay upright.

A whimper escapes Ray as Brad mouths words against his skin, without making a sound.

\--

Before Brad leaves again, he goes to the bathroom with an electric razor in hand and with the purpose of shearing back his hair again. Ray listen from the kitchen where he is studying for an economics exam. He pauses in tapping his pencil and listens to the buzz of the blades, and tries not to think about mortars.

Ray shoots out of the chair, knocking it with a clatter to the tile as he stands. The approach of the nightmares seems physical, like a crashing wave, and the last thing Ray wants is to wake up in the night covered in sweat with a throat sore from shouting. He needs to see Brad, and the need itself scares him.

Ray covers his mouth with his hands and stands, in Brad's kitchen, breathing harshly against his own skin until his heart stops pounding and he isn't gulping down air. Then, when he doesn't feel like he might shatter – and he hates himself for that sensation – Ray turns toward the hall and follows the sound of the electric razor to the bathroom. To Brad.

Brad finishes just as Ray leans in the doorway. Brad catches Ray's eyes as he sets the razor on the sink, but doesn’t speak.

Ray rolls his eyes, aiming for playful, and says, “You’ve been back a week, Brad. Not even your ancestor, Leif Erikson, could have grown a mane that fast. Besides, I find it hard to believe there is anyone under the Queen’s command as strict as Sixta.”

Brad doesn't move, just stands statuesque in front of the mirror, leaning on the sink top in a way that makes his back bow. He also doesn't break eye contact and it makes Ray feel like he is being watched through a scope by the Iceman rather than looked at by Brad.

Ray steps further into the bathroom and raises his hands to rest on Brad's hips. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead at the junction of Brad’s shoulderblades.

\--

Brad watches Ray through the mirror, trying to search out something unnamed under Ray's skin. From the moment he stepped into the room Ray appeared off, a twitch in his stride and a particular tightness of his muscles that tells Brad that Ray is in distress, but he can't read the why. So Brad watches as Ray moves further into the room and reaches for him. Ray's forehead is warm and it makes Brad’s gut twist. He turns to grab Ray by his forearms.

Ray's eyes fly open as if he had fallen asleep in the few seconds he leaned against Brad. Brad searches those dark eyes and the irritated, reddened veins but he can't find a solution in them. He just sees the silence that stood like a wall between him and Jess toward the end. And how fucking familiar it is to now.

When Brad shoves Ray against the door frame Ray laughs, wild and with his head thrown back.

“Controlling bastard,” Ray says as he reaches out to grasp Brad's forearms. He surges up when Brad leans down to kiss him and makes it as filthy as possible.

Between kisses Brad murmurs, “We shouldn’t bet I’ll get more time off.”

(Ray pretends he isn’t terrified.)

\--

During the rest of Brad’s time in England, Ray attends his classes and manages to sprain his ankle twice. Once when he drags Walt to a concert that turns out to be a bar brawl and the second time when he trips, sober, over the coffee table. He reads every book on Brad’s shelves, most by pulling all-nighters. He even uncovers the cookbook Brad got as a housewarming gift from Mrs. Colbert. He cooks in the middle of the night when he can no longer cram facts into his head without it feeling heavy. He manages to stock Walt’s freezer as well as Brad's.

Ray also has dreams about thousands of miles of sand. Humvees blowing through the terrain, looking like shark fins rising from the depths. Ray wakes up panting for air as if he had resurfaced as well.

\--

Ray keeps his growing psychosis under wraps until a month into Brad’s return from Britain. Terrified as Ray is of looking less than in Brad’s eyes, he doesn’t dare breathe a word. Not when he can’t even look his reflection in the eye. Ray has wound himself up so he is sure that if he spills, Brad will notice the same terror in Ray that has Ray covering up all the reflective surfaces while Brad is gone.

While Ray can cover with humor in the daylight, he can’t control his change in sleep patterns. With Brad back he doesn’t burst awake to the sound of mortar fire in his head, but he no longer sleeps sprawled carelessly on his back or stomach. Ray wakes up some mornings curled around a pillow, the bed cold beside him and dismisses it as Brad being restless in civilian life. He doesn’t suspect Brad of being the insecure bastard he is. Never even crosses his mind what it must look like.

Most days, Ray sleeps uncharacteristically late. One morning Brad is up for three hours before Ray staggers out of the bedroom.

Brad calls out that he’s in the kitchen and like a heat seeking missile, Ray appears. Ray approaches and reaches out to wrap his arms around Brad’s waist. Brad tenses. When they sleep at night there is less touching than before and it reminds Brad of what happened with Jess, how they slept on separate sides of the bed but he hadn't understood it was the beginning of an end. He knows this time, though, and it makes being around Ray difficult. He feels Ray’s elbows settle under his ribs and he tries to hold still while Ray rests his forehead against Brad’s spine. Brad feels his heart bottoming out, it's what he has wanted since he got back (while he was away, every fucking waking moment), but it feels like pity.

Before Ray can turn his head to kiss at Brad's neck, as he is known to do, Brad sets his knife back in the butter and moves his hands to Ray’s. Brad murmurs, “Ray,” as he gently disengages Ray’s fingers. Then Brad drops Ray’s hands and moves his body, his toast, and the butter down the counter.

Ray is stock-still for a moment just staring at Brad’s back. He gapes like a fish, even though it's not the first time Brad has shrugged him off. Brad’s back tenses but he doesn’t make any move to turn around, unable to surrender. And that, that is new.

An irritated sound falls free from Ray’s gaping mouth, then he pivots and storms toward the master bathroom. Even without combat boots his stomping feet thunder against the wooden floor. Brad drops his knife and an aggravated sound that resembles Ray’s name escapes his lips as he follows after.

Ray slams the door to the bathroom shut screaming, “Fuck you, Brad Colbert,” at its surface. He kicks it for good measure. The wood shakes under the impact. On the other side of the door, Brad drops his open hands to his sides. Consciously, Brad knows he was acting passive-aggressively, pulling away to give Ray a taste of his own medicine. He also realizes it’s ridiculously childish. Though he knows all of this, Brad doesn’t know how to admit it aloud.

Brad slams the front door shut an hour later. Brad’s fury is accompanied by the sound of his motorcycle engine screaming down the street as he breaks the speed limit. Ray doesn’t leave the bathroom for the rest of the day. He puts a floor mat on the bottom of the tub and thumps the back of his head against the porcelain surface until his eyes stop burning. Brad’s possessive streak Ray could deal with, even relish it at times, but the turn about has him floundering. It looks to Ray like the stabilizing factor in his life is ripping away faster than he can hold on.

When Ray falls asleep, it is after Brad’s pulled back into the driveway. The sound of the front door closing convinces Ray’s firing synapses that Brad is very much alive, only a few yards away.

\--

Brad ventures back to the bedroom in the morning for clean clothes and sees Ray come out of the bathroom rumpled. Ray runs his hands up the back of his skull, pressing his fingers masochistically against the tender knot from his earlier self-harm.

Before he acknowledges Brad, Ray pulls his hands down to cover his eyes.

“You slept on the couch?” Ray asks not bothering to look at the made bed.

“I thought you would have taken the bed, you hick.” Brad’s tone is as close to regretful as Ray expects to hear.

Ray tries to breath, frustration bubbling under his skin, more than a fair amount pointed at himself. Pulling his hands away, Ray finds Brad towering over him with concern clear in his eyes. Ray doesn't mean to flinch when Brad's hands go to cover his hips, he's just startled at finding Brad so close so suddenly.

More than that, he feels raw and frayed. Ray deals with things by himself or not at all, and Brad's hands going to comfort him are an alien experience. That doesn't mean he doesn't realize how wrong flinching away from Brad seems. Especially when everything from the set of Brad's mouth to his shoulders screams the reactionary shut down.

Ray groans in frustration and grips Brad's wrists to keep his hands on Ray's hips. Brad hears the groan as pointed at him, and can't help his own frustrated sounds when Ray's actions, kissing Brad and dragging Brad to the bed, are in complete contradiction with the sound.

Brad growls and digs his thumbs into the soft muscle of Ray's inner thighs as he slides down Ray's naked body. He bites too hard and digs his nails in where he can. The need to be consumed by Ray never left him, as much as he wanted it to after the night in the hotel. It scares him, now more than ever, because he can't understand what is going on.

Biting a line from Ray's naval to his left nipple, Brad resolves not to ask. Brad Colbert can handle a lot of things, but not what's going in Ray's head.

\--

Ray mouths at the images on Brad’s lower back and murmurs, “What the fuck is this, Brad?”

Brad makes a sound as though he hadn’t heard but Ray can feel his muscles tense beneath his lips. Ray wants to shout, “This fucking relationship! Don’t even pretend we’re talking about your tattoo!” Instead his throat dries up and he has to cough just to rasp out the word, “nothing.” He bites harshly at the skin beneath his teeth.

\--

It’s well into a week of passive-aggressive fighting when Ray starts dreaming again. Brad feels the mattress shake as it is abandoned. He waits a moment before he follows. The sliding door is open and Ray is curled against the wall of the house. Goosebumps are rising on his arms as the sea breeze cuts through his old t-shirt, but he is a statue with his head in his arms. Brad hesitates then steps back through the doorway to slide down the opposite side of the wall. This is worse than Ray’s breakdown in Iraq. At least afterward, Brad had understood Ray’s forced grin and the reassurance in his eyes. Now Brad feels he is losing Ray to something he can’t see and can’t fight.

\--

Outside, the sound of the ocean fills Ray’s ears and drowns out the nightmarish sounds of a humvee rolling in the sand. Buried in his own arms, Ray breathes deeply as the shaking begins. Even though he can’t hear it, the image of a humveee rolling and crushing its occupants replays in Ray’s mind.

\--

Brad crawls back to bed first and doesn’t know if Ray ever leaves the porch. The other half of the bed is empty when Brad wakes up.

\--

Ray is in the kitchen making coffee and pretending that he hasn’t been up for five hours.

“Good morning, Colbert,” Rays says, aiming for teasing.

Through his exhaustion Ray grins. He manages to hold onto the grin when Brad throws him only a nod in return. Ray watches Brad walk out of the room and disappear through the front, all the while holding on to his too-tight smile. But at the sound of a motorcycle revving, the sound of tires squealing on asphalt as Brad peels down the street, Ray slides down the cabinets pounding his palms against his skull.

\--

Ray isn’t home when Brad pulls back in on his bike at seven. The remains of his toaster are spread across the dining room table. Screws in one pile and the crumbs from previous use swept up and preserved on a napkin. In the kitchen Brad finds a list of the people they know in order of largest to smallest dick taped to the fridge. Brad finds his name written on a post-it note in the bathroom. The header says “Bitches” and the only other name on the list is Ray's.

\--

The next time he has a dream, Ray rolls over and wakes Brad up by shaking him harshly. Brad’s barely blinking away sleep when Ray has his tongue down his throat. Knowing Ray and the way his hands are quick to grab at all available skin, Brad doesn’t hesitate to kiss back.

It’s less of a fuck and more of a slow grind. Brad gets Ray’s clothes off and covers the bared skin with his lips. Ray runs his hand from Brad’s hip to his cock. They jerk each other off without the usual playful, dirty banter. Ray squeezes too hard and Brad digs his nails in too deep. The air is blowing out of their relationship with little more than a whimper.

Afterward, Ray pulls his shirt over his head with minor difficulty. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed, and Brad is miles away sitting on his side of the bed, staring resolutely at the alarm clock.

“Hasser says he’ll take me in until I can find an apartment.” Ray runs a hand over his eyes. “Besides, this pissing contest we have going has gotten fucking old, homes.”

Brad doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. Ray nods, standing to pull on his boxers. He doesn’t bother with pants or packing his stuff. Ray just gets his keys and in the car before whatever is propelling him kills him instead.

When Walt opens the door Ray asks, “Did you ever notice the contraction for ‘he will’ is ‘hell’ with a goddamn apostrophe?”

Ray steps around Walt as if he doesn’t have blood shot eyes and rumpled hair. If Walt intended to ask, he bites his lip instead.

\--

Ray makes the mistake of letting Walt break out the beers as soon as the door shuts. As it turns out, Walt keeps enough alcohol in his apartment to supply a forty-eight hour bender. By the end Walt is sprawled out over the couch with his elbow covering his eyes. He is just as drunk, if not more so, as Ray. Ray doubts Walt is going to remember anything beyond a hangover induced migraine and how filthy his toilet bowl is but Ray is pretty sure he said too much.

Just to be safe, Ray sits up and faces Walt, arms flying around his head as he makes Walt swear to not breathe a word to Brad.

\--

Brad drives out to Hasser's apartment complex three days after Ray leaves.

The first day he is still feeling self-righteous enough to expect Ray to turn back up, bruises under his eyes but with a shit-eating grin that will be reassurance enough. After he returns from surfing and Ray is still absent Brad pulls the whiskey out and stays nicely inebriated into the afternoon of the second day.

And repeat.

The third day Brad is lying on his stomach in the middle of the bed with the mother of all headaches. He doesn't imagine Ray's lips on his skin as he dozes in and out all day long.

Brad drives around the block before he pulls past the gates and into the main parking lot for the apartment complex. He idles in the parking lot and debates whether or not to cut the engine out and put the kickstand down.

Brad doesn't even take his helmet off. He heads back home instead.

\--

When Brad gets back to his house he is surprised to find Walt sitting on his porch. A thousand ideas had filled Brad on the way home, and he had taken the long way back to try and drive them out of his mind. Brad stops in the drive way and goes through the motions of turning off the engine and leaning off before standing upright. He takes his sweet time until, finally, he has no choice but to turn toward Walt and the front door.

Walt's eyes turn toward Brad with pity after one once over. Whatever Walt sees is enough to make him give a soft murmur of, “Shit, Brad.” Brad has to square his shoulders to keep the humiliation from his face.

Brad moves over the porch to open the door without even a curt greeting.

Walt exhales at his side and says, “I'll take care of him.”

Then Walt is gone and it's just Brad, inside, with his back to the front door.

\--

Ray signs a six month lease on an apartment, and Brad ships back to Iraq for nine. After three, Ray gives up pretending and shows up at Brad’s house.

He retrieves two hundred dollars from the blue tin Brad keeps in the top cabinet above the stove and pays the house sitter to fuck-off.

He manages his classes but spends his spare time in the house. He doesn’t think about Brad’s mom and how she has left a new message for Brad on _Brad’s_ answering machine. More than anything he doesn’t think about the latest in his Brad-related dreams.

\--

Ray detours from his usual routine of straight back to Brad’s house from class to search his apartment for clean clothing and receives a call from Nate Fick. He answers without looking at the caller ID, half his attention on the underside of his couch. When he realizes it’s the LT, Ray freezes in his crouch over the coffee table. _Goddman Hasser_ , Ray thinks. He listens to Nate until he can’t any longer. If he couldn’t admit this shit (sober) to Brad why would anyone expect him to spill his guts to the first coaxing tone?

“Pardon me, sir,” Ray interrupts. “I have to go. My cat is on fire.”

Ray hangs up the phone and tosses it clear across the room with little regard.

\--

It’s another day in his boxers with a bowl of cereal on his knees as he sits on the railing that wraps around Brad’s back porch. The weather of the ocean is hungry. Ray eats but doesn’t move from his perch.

He imagines Marines are running into the ocean. A wave rolls over them and they are crushed when the surface of the water turns out to be as solid as a wall.

Ray takes another bite, sucking on the spoon before he lets it drop back to the bowl with a clatter. In Ray’s head it sounds the same as the bricks rattling together in Rudy’s pack. His muscles tense and he hesitates to run into the waves. The itch to be crushed passes and Ray slides off the railing. He turns his back to the ocean and walks back inside.

\--

Ray dreams of the bridge and the clusterfuck, only this time around Walt’s driving while Trombley shoots at everything that moves. _Fucking Trombley._ And Ray knows exactly what’s about to happen but he can’t seem to move. Brad is telling him to wake up.

“You’ll miss the war, Corporal.” Even the Brad in his mind has disengaged.

Ray can’t decipher why he is asleep in the back of the Humvee. Scribe is trying to shake him awake but Ray knows he’s awake already.

Walt spots the obstruction and Ray thrashes to gain control. It’s fucking horrible knowing, made even more so when he knows and Brad is in the fucking dark with the dragons. Completely wrong. But Ray can’t peal apart his sand-paper lips to warn him.

Shit hits the fan and suddenly Ray isn’t in the Humvee. He isn’t even a person. He is the bridge.

\--

Ray wakes up and gets drunk enough to turn his phone on. He ignores the waiting messages and leaves one of his own on Walt’s machine, mumbling about dragons and tattoos on his ass. He throws the phone when he’s done and can’t even muster enthusiasm at its destruction.

Ray stops checking his e-mail after Walt starts typing in all caps. He pulls out the phone line in his unoccupied apartment and waits for someone to bust down the door to Brad’s house.

\--

The next night Ray dreams it is his and Brad’s victor that gets stuck on the bridge, on him because Ray is the bridge, and he purposefully collapses beneath them –

\--

Brad can’t bring himself to spend his leave at home and accepts Nate’s offer to visit.

Nate meets him at the airport, hands in his pockets and a soft smile on his mouth that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He nods in greeting and ignoring the way Brad just rolls his shoulders.

Nate takes Brad’s duffel bag and leads him toward his car. As Brad slides into the passenger seat Nate says, “He stopped answering my calls,” like it is a normal conversation starter. Brad hums in response.

Nate takes Brad out for drinks and they try to make small talk, but Brad's mind is back in California.

Brad already knows where he’s going to find Ray. He just has to decide if he _wants_ to find Ray.

\--

Ray dreams of the incident at the bridge as it happened only, when no one pulls their head out of their ass and moves, Brad gets out of the Humvee instead of Ray. Brad stands in the spray of bullets and orders the vehicles to reverse.

Ray wakes up sweat soaked.

He jumps from the bed and runs to the kitchen to make coffee. It doesn't matter if his hands are shaking, as long as he doesn't fall back asleep.

\--

After a week of the same dream, Ray wakes up to Brad’s face towering over his own. It’s equally more terrifying than the dream and the best damn thing he has ever seen.

At least until he realizes it’s not a hallucination, but Brad. Actual living, breathing Brad with his hands on Ray’s shoulders, brow creased while he shakes Ray awake. Brad with his concerned and searching look. Ray’s goddamn sweat and terror should look like warning signs. Ray imagines that they scream, “run,” at Brad, but Brad doesn't heed the warning. He doesn't even react. Just sits there frowning.

When Brad makes a move to get closer, it scares Ray more than seeing him dead. Before Brad can tighten his grip, Ray is out from under the covers and racing through the darkened house. Ray can’t tell if Brad calls his name, but as he leaps off of the porch and races into the sand he can hear Brad running up behind him.

Ray stumbles as he runs, sucked down by the sand and, though his mind has come up with far more sinister deaths, Ray imagines tripping and sinking to a asphyxiated death beneath quick sand. It makes his pulse race and ruins his coordination so that when he stumbles again, Ray falls to his knees in the grains. Heart racing between his temples, Ray stays where he lands.

Ray sits in the sand and digs his feet under as deep as he can, breathing out his fear of being sucked beneath the surface and looking for the grounding sensation of sand biting into his skin. The grains are everywhere but in his blood, wedged beneath his nails and already sliding under his clothes. But not under his skin.

Ray falls still. He doesn’t wiggle his toes, doesn’t turn to watch Brad approach. He becomes a statue with his arms loose around his shins. All the while he stares blindly out at the ocean with his chin resting on his knees.

“Ray.”

It’s fucking cold with the breeze rolling off of the ocean, its dark and a long while until dawn. They sit for an hour and Ray waits for Brad to stand and leave.

During the second hour Ray realizes Brad is staring at the ocean with no intention of giving in and there is nothing for it. Ray has to leave.

Resolved, he stumbles up from the sand. For one moment his left arm is out behind him and he is a bridge. He is _the bridge_. He is the clusterfuck and he swallows the men of Bravo Company whole and alive-

Instead of going back toward the house, Ray runs into the ocean. He is graceless and loses more energy swinging his arms at the waves than by moving farther into the swell. The water hits him hard in the chest and, in his mind, Ray eggs it on as if the ocean is like Rudy or the bullies in high school. Capable of being taunted into a temper so Ray can construct his own destruction. Ray loses footing for a beat and it sends him sliding under the oncoming wave. It passes over Ray's head while he is sucking water down his nose. Ray bursts to the surface as soon as the wave passes.

And Brad is there to catch him, stopping Ray's mission of being swept to sea.

Ray goes deadly still in his grasp and Brad can’t help the “Goddamnit Ray,” that sneaks past his lips. It’s not “Goddamnit Ray, stop singing country in the vehicle,” or “Goddmanit Ray, Trombley just killed a kid. You can’t just make it better.” He has his arms around Ray’s chest. It is, “Goddmanit Ray, don’t make me kiss you.”

He presses his face to Ray’s hair and waits it out. The water is up to Ray’s chest and both men are soon soaked by the rolling waves. Ray’s chest heaves, heart racing two beats faster than Brad’s, but slowly falling. When Ray sinks back against him, Brad presses a hard kiss to Ray’s temple before moving to drag him back toward the house.

\--

Brad gets Ray to sit at the table and it's scary how easily Ray goes down. His arms flop onto the table and he starts in on tapping his pointer-finger, but only for a moment. Then it is silent between them. Brad drops to his knees beside the table as he watches how still Ray is.

When Brad speaks he stares at Ray.

Ray stares straight ahead.

“Nate tells me you went MIA. Fell off the planet or some shit.”

Ray reminds himself to take Nate off of the Christmas card list.

“Nah, I’m right here dude.” The words don’t come out right. They come out strangled, scratching their way up Ray's throat. They make Ray want to cough and clear his wind pipe, but he doesn't. Ray prods at the table top again; shoulder’s hunching as he starts to draw circles against the grain. Then his forehead furrows.

“Why the fuck did you leave?” They both know Ray isn’t talking about going to war. And Brad doesn’t have an argument to use that won’t escalate the situation.

Ray scrubs a hand over his forehead and stammers out, “Shit. I mean, I know that technically I left, but emotionally you were fucking gone. More than usual I mean…”

He’s out of the chair, knocking it over with a bang as he starts to pace. “Goddamnit, why did you let me leave?”

Brad looks up from the floor and watches as Ray's hands fly about as he manages to make pacing look like a violent sport.

Brad rises slowly to his feet as he says, “Don't make it sound like I could have stopped you.”

Ray stops mid-step, mouth dropping open as he whips his head around to look at Brad. Brad leans against the wall behind him, shoulders tensing as he crosses his arms. He watches Ray connect the dots and a foul taste takes hold of his mouth.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Colbert you are a goddamned piece of work.” Ray laughs and staggers. It looks like Brad flinches, but he's really stopping himself from running to hold Ray up. Ray laughs again, this time it is too close to hysterical for Brad to handle.

“Ray?”

“I’m having some issues, Brad. Some stupid PTS-fucking-D. I keep thinking,” Ray looks up as he trails off. “I’m not Jess, Brad. Hasser isn’t going to come in here and steal me, or Nate or whoever the fuck else you imagined in that paranoid peanut of a brain.”

Brad opens his mouth and Ray rushes him.

“Believe it or not I wanted you around, motherfucker!”

“Then you should've fucking acted like it,” Brad throws back. He doesn't mean to use his height as leverage, but Brad thinks about every time Ray pulled away and he's backing Ray into a wall before he can clear his head.

Fucking figures, Brad thinks as he turns away breathing harshly. Ray was the only one to get under the Iceman's skin in theater, why not here?

Halfway into the kitchen Brad says, “You could have talked to me.”

“I didn’t fucking hang around for nearly three years in hopes of getting your big Viking ass killed ‘cause you’d be too busy worrying about me to look out for claymores.”

“Fuck you, Ray.”

“Fuck you! I don't know who the fuck you think you are, Colbert, but you’re not some sugar daddy helping little Ray-Ray make something of himself in the big, bad world. _And your not my_ goddamned _therapist_!” Ray pauses to breath.

“Do you have anything else to say?” Brad refuses to look at Ray as he speaks. If he has to look Ray in the eyes he thinks he might just snap.

“Yeah.” Something in the way Ray breathes makes Brad turn around. When he catches Brad's eyes Ray continues with, “I accept that you’re going to be gone, that you need to fight your goddamn dragons and I’m sure as hell not going to stop you, but I’m going to worry my tiny-ass skull to pieces every time you’re not beside me. It’s a fucking fact. Can we handle that?”

Brad crowds him against the table and kisses the hell out of him and he hopes it’s a good enough affirmative because he’s never been less prepared to lose something in his whole life.

And he needs Ray to lose the wild look in his eyes.

Ray moans under him, and it fucking terrifies Brad how easily Ray's mouth falls open and how quickly he spreads his legs so he can pull Brad in. Before there was a fight and equal need to take. Now, though, Brad can't even think past how fragile Ray feels beneath him, shaking from what is probably severe sleep deprivation to wonder if maybe _before_ was unhealthy.

Pressing his thumbs against the line of Ray's jaw, Brad controls the kiss. He angles Ray's head and slows the kiss down, delves deeper into Ray's mouth and draws out the motions of his lips against Ray's. Ray feels hot inside of his mouth and at every point where Brad's bare skin brushes Ray's. They are both soaked from the ocean and their jeans are stuck to them but Ray still tries to peel the material back as fast as he can. Brad tips Ray's head back and swallows a frustrated groan as Brad's jeans refuse to be pulled from his hips. Ray's hands tug impatiently at Brad's belt loops between their bodies and Brad steps in closer so Ray's hands are trapped between them.

Ray is still shaking when he takes Brad by the hands and leads him, backwards, down the hall.

\--

Brad watches Ray from the corner of his eyes. Their panting has returned to normal breathing but Brad’s heart is still racing. He wishes he was better at this comforting shtick. He doesn’t have the right words.

He revisits his wish and revises it, wishing Ray didn’t need the right words.

Ray is pressing his palms against his eyes while Brad lies frozen beside him.

“Would you just fucking kiss me already?”

Brad rolls over, pulling Ray’s hands away.

“Yeah.”

Brad holds Ray's hands away from him and, slowly, slides them up the sheets and over Ray's head. There is a whine from one of them as Brad presses down cautiously on Ray. Ray’s legs fall open as Brad’s weight applies pressure on his chest. Before Brad might have joked about eagerness but they’re living in their handmade clusterfuck and they are still fragile. Instead he lets go of Ray's hands to brace himself on his elbows. Breathing shallowly, Brad hovers inches above Ray's lips and watches Ray's dark, pupil blown eyes scrutinize him in return. Licking his lips, Brad makes to say something to Ray as he stares at the furrowing of Ray's brow, but he doesn't get the chance to get the words out. Ray surges up for him, arms dropping from where Brad left them to curl around the back of his head so Ray can dig his nails into the top of Brad's scalp.

The second whine comes from the back of Brad's throat.

Sliding his hands up Ray biceps to his elbows, Brad unhooks Ray's arms from his body and presses them against the mattress again, only this time he nips at Ray's chin as he slides back down Ray's body. There is a huff of indignation but Ray's arms don't move again. His legs, however, spread wide and Brad sinks down so their cocks are pressed together. Ray arches and, as Brad watches, the muscles in his arms tense from the effort of not moving them. The sight makes the rest of the blood in Brad's body rush south. He takes hold of Ray’s chin in one hand and kisses him possessively while the fingers of his other hand dig into the soft skin at the back of Ray’s thigh.

\--

“One of your Iceman powers should be to reverse time.” Ray looks up at the end of his sentence and is startled by the devastation on Brad’s face. To anyone else it would look like indifference but Ray can see the sadness edging in the corners of Brad’s eyes.

“So you could wake me with a blow job, dumb ass.” Ray is laughing while Brad curses him, unapologetically digging his teeth into Ray’s shoulder.

It feels right, like they are headed for functional. Finding their way toward managing. A Humvee in the middle of Iraq makes it out with all five occupants’ intact kind of functional. Undoubtedly stupid as fuck and bad for their health but still. It's why Ray wraps his arms around Brad's waist and holds on tight.

***

**Author's Note:**

> It took me nearly 9 months to write this story, from original conception through multiple drafts. I couldn't have finished it without the help of Justaotherwitch@LJ who read and reread portions of this for nearly as many months.


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